


The Marriage of Heaven & Hell

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Time, Romance, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-21
Updated: 2008-07-27
Packaged: 2018-09-03 11:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8710171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: We know what happened to Dean after Jake 'killed' his brother, but have you ever wondered what Sam was experiencing while he was dead? I did wonder and this fic is the result. (Major spoilers for AHBL I & II.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Title taken from a work by William Blake. Two short phrases in this fic are borrowed from the American political drama _West Wing_.Everything else more or less belongs to Kripke. As always, many thanks to SylvanWitch for another great beta. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.

  
Author's notes: A look at Dean as he struggles with an unexpected consequence of Sam's death.  


* * *

Author: jdax 

Warning: Spoilers for AHBL I & II

Disclaimer: Don’t own them, but if I did…

 

***

 

Living in fear is the worst kind of way for a Winchester to be. Dean thought he’d seen it all, what with demons at his doorstep for all but four of his twenty-eight years, haunting each footstep from the cradle to the grave. Now, his days and nights were so thick with the remains of the kill, the smell of blood lingered so long on him no matter how many times he washed it away, he began to wonder who was hunting whom. 

 

He’d been thinking for a while that they’d been damn lucky, maybe _too_ lucky, when it came to the hunt. Fortune of any sort doesn’t hold out for a Winchester; the world had maintained its indifference too long to convince Dean of anything else. Yeah, he figured one day his streak of uncontested kills would come to a halt. He’d meet his match in some beguiling bitch fresh from the pit: wanton, powerful and hungrier for his life than he for hers. After a bloody battle -- because he’d have to make a good showing, at least -- she’d finish him off like so much red meat.

 

He’d smirk sometimes when considering the scenario, Dean versus Demon, ‘cause in his mind, death wasn’t always the _immediate_ conclusion, depending on how hot he imagined his adversary to be. 

 

Then, Sam would inevitably ask what was so funny, and Dean would remember why he hadn’t been able to sleep nights since… since…

 

Dean’d clear his throat then go back to cleaning whatever weapon he’d been going over for half an hour, hoping Sam hadn’t somehow developed the ability to read minds. It wasn’t so much that Jake’s name might slip from his tongue. God knew that conversation would die instantly and anyway, he’d been a pawn just like the rest of them. Oh, Dean was still plenty pissed about what Jake had done, but he figured the poor bastard had gotten his due. Was probably _still_ getting it. He shuddered. Much as he hated the images Jake had left in his head, Dean could empathize with his problem; when a demon screws you over, you have no choice but to take it as best you can. Old yellow-eyes was dead, so there was no use beating that horse anymore, either. These days, it wasn’t even the crossroads deal that kept his hand on a bottle of Scotch and his eyes forever on Sam; his death and all that came after hadn’t sunk in yet; Dean suspected he wouldn’t let himself think on what he’d promised, what he’d traded, until those Hellhounds dragged him to it.

 

No, something else fought for a piece of his guilt. Like the deal itself, he didn’t dwell on it, just let it live on the outskirts of his awareness. If you asked him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly when he noticed. Maybe it was the moment he’d watched Jake plunge the knife into Sam’s back, his brother stumbling toward him, eyes wide with confusion and fear, looking to Dean to fix it. Or maybe it was when Sam fell to his knees and Dean reached for him, clutching him tightly in a protective embrace, arms encircling him, trembling fingers examining the wounds. “It’s not even that bad,” he’d insisted, shaking Sam to get him to agree.

 

To make it clear.

 

To make it true. 

 

More likely, it was when he’d been sitting over Sam’s body at dawn, shouting down his better angels because really, who were they, who was _anyone_ , to tell him when it was over? 

 

They were right, of course. He should let Sam go. God knew Dean had dragged the poor kid around long enough, his rightful claim to freedom unjustly fading with each passing year. Dean had no idea how long he’d sat there arguing with himself, pleading with whatever was listening to give him a break, to give him a chance. He hadn’t done right by Sam; he knew that. This was a mistake. Sam wasn’t supposed to go first. Dean was supposed to have time to make it all up to his brother, to drop him off in some manicured, middle-class suburbia a few years down the line, just like they’d planned. His anguished logic calculated that, by virtue of all he’d lost thus far, all he’d faced and feared in the name of the hunt, whoever was running this twisted little freak show owed him the chance to make good on his word; the sum of his sacrifices should buy him that much, at least.

 

Sam had always said Dean could make it without him, that he was strong enough, but as he kept vigil over his brother’s lifeless body, Dean knew he couldn’t and he wasn’t.

 

He’d leaned forward in his chair then -- a kind of slow, measured fall -- extending his trembling hand, reaching for Sam’s cheek. Thing was, by the time his fingers made contact with Sam’s skin, lightly grazing his jaw, then moving closer to still-warm lips, Dean no longer recognized his intention. 

 

It took him longer than he would have been comfortable admitting- Sam’s skin was pleasantly soft to his rough, calloused flesh- but he withdrew the hand, staring at it disbelievingly as if it had betrayed him somehow. He felt as though it had given him knowledge no man should ever have about his brother.

 

Just as quickly, the offending hand, coupled with the other, became a place of rest as Dean bowed his head and pressed his face into his open palms, partly to shield himself from the specter of Sam’s body, partly to breathe in the smell Sam’s skin left lingering on his own. If, in his grief, his posture could be mistaken for prayer, well, he vaguely guessed his cause would be helped as much as it ever was.

 

He bit back a low, angry sob.

 

*

 

He knew it was selfish the moment it came to him. Damn demon herself probably fed him the idea. Why not? At this rate, she’d be getting two for the price of one if Dean continued down this darkly twisted path. Even as he stood at dead center, waiting to make the trade, all he could think of was having Sam. 

 

Just one more chance. 

 

One more decade. 

 

One more day. 

 

One more minute. 

 

He never stopped to think about what he’d do with that time; Sam was just an ubiquitous want occasionally obscured by the painful inconvenience of breathing. If for one moment he’d allowed himself to consider all the possibilities, he might have slipped back into the Impala and driven away, leaving his deal and his brother buried where they belonged. 

 

Instead, his head swam with the persistent lie that _he_ owed and _was_ owed. 

 

“Bring him back,” was all he could think to say when she swaggered toward him, then away, flirting with leaving.

 

He didn’t negotiate so much as beg. It was clear to him pretty quickly that she was just amusing herself, taunting him with the tired tale of his childhood, of his fuck-ups, as if she’d found a shiny new toy to play with. They both knew it would have only been a matter of time anyway for Dean, but now, with the deal in place, he was giving her another shot at Sam. 

 

He closed his mind to that grim possibility, as if segregating that thought were some sort of protection from its truth. 

 

He had twelve months to prove that it was.

 

When he arrived back at the house in the cold, grey light of a changed world, he didn’t know what he expected to find. He fumbled with the lock; there was something so final in the metallic click of the key sliding home. It was too late to change whatever awaited him on the other side of that door.

 

He walked purposefully through the house, numb, heedless of the furniture -- some of which he’d broken earlier in a fit of anger -- daring to stand between him and the bedroom door. It seemed years before he reached it. Resting his hand on the knob for a moment, he’d closed his eyes and whispered something between a promise and a prayer. 

 

_A little too late for that_ , he admitted with a sigh.

 

In the moment between hoping and having, Dean made one vow: never again would he be selfish were Sam was concerned. 

 

But as soon as he saw his brother, slipped his arms around him and felt the reassuring warmth and weight of his body, Dean knew that, in some ways, the promise was already broken.

 

He’d rested his chin lightly on Sam’s shoulder, holding him in a way that he’d categorically deny was tender, even though he didn’t stop. Before Sam pulled away, casting looks of disorientation around the room, before the questions and subterfuge took over, Dean briefly pressed his face into his brother’s neck, closed his eyes, and swore he smelled salt.

 

*

 

A few months and several hundred miles later, Dean’s still keeping his word, but just barely. He’s had too much time alone in his own head and he’s running out of reasons to distract himself from all the ways Sam is looming ever larger in his dreams. During the day, he’s still holding it together, concealing his conflicted feelings with the reassuring snark and sarcasm that’s expected when things get too real. He slips up sometimes, he thinks, then torques things back to center with a smirk or a clap to Sam’s back. He judges he’s dodged another bullet when Sam smiles back. 

 

Things are far more complicated in the dark. 

 

Everything about Sam comes to him in a heated, rushing wave of tortured desire as he slips between the sheets and waits for his brother’s breathing to even out into the slow, relaxed cadence of sleep. Only then can he resume his nightly routine of flagrant fantasizing, jacking off, recrimination, and finally, reluctant acceptance that this is the way he’s gonna have to deal with his feelings. He’s often awake long into the night, tossing and turning, trapped in an endless struggle between protecting Sam and possessing him. 

 

Every motel seems to be getting hotter than the last. Prophetic, perhaps? He’s too uncomfortable to be philosophical about it. Dean lays there, naked on top of the sheet, flushed, lustful and sweating. He shifts nervously, but trying to relax in this skin is about as likely as breaking the deal, so he just takes it. He has a feeling there’s a lot more of that kind of thing in his future; better get used to it now.

 

As their time together winds down, Dean’s needs sometimes threaten to spiral out beyond his control, almost convincing him that maybe he deserves what’s coming whether he ever lays a hand on Sam or not.

 

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes: A look at what happened to Sam while he was dead.  


* * *

***

 

 

Sam’s eyes drifted open slowly, languidly, against a soft, bright light. He blinked a few times, but felt no particular hurry to do anything but lay there in the sand. 

 

Sand?

 

His fingers moved through it, enjoying the warm and grainy feel. His feet soon joined in, digging down deep into the course granules. Wiggling his toes under that blanket was a delightful challenge, especially when the downward press of his feet brought the entire length of his back into contact with the earth. He moved this way and that, experimenting with the different sensations and was so caught up in the surprising stimulation that he didn’t immediately notice that the light was gone, blocked by something that looked a lot like Dean.

 

“Hey,” he said, smiling broadly and offering a hand to his younger brother. “How ya doin’?” 

 

Sam stood, lost his balance, and righted himself by reaching for Dean’s outstretched hand. He blinked hard, feeling as though he was still in that pleasantly hazy, slightly vulnerable world between waking and sleeping when his body wasn’t quite his own.

 

Sam looked around, clearly confused. He blinked again, but the scene didn’t change. Yes, he was on a real, honest-to-God beach and he had the sand in his shorts to prove it. He shifted, turning this way and that to get a full view of his surroundings. Turned out there wasn’t much to see: for miles in every direction, a vast expanse of shore chased a more vast expanse of sky. The only thing interrupting that enormous and monotonous panorama was an idyllic bungalow set about twenty yards off the water. Behind that, a backdrop of foliage.

 

And, of course, two young men staring at each other. 

 

_You’ve gotta be kidding me_ , Sam thought, rubbing his eyes, suddenly feeling like he’d been dropped into the middle of a bad romance novel. 

 

“Where are we?” 

 

“I promised you some R and R, didn’t I?” Dean said, flashing him a self-satisfied grin. 

 

Sam looked around doubtfully. “This is what you came up with?”

 

“What’s wrong with it?”

 

Sam licked his lips, tasting the salt, then squinted at Dean. The light was so bright. “Look, I’m not trying to sound ungrateful, but this is a little, I dunno, _weird_. I mean, it doesn’t seem like the kind of place you’d choose.”

 

Dean shrugged. “Why not?”

 

Sam’s eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open slightly. “ _Why not?_ ” We’re completely exposed here, for one thing. Anything comes at us, we have no place to hide.”

 

“No place for them to hide, either,” Dean pointed out.

 

Sam continued staring incredulously, but had to concede Dean’s point, weak as it was. Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. “I’m starving. Let’s get somethin’ to eat.”

 

Dean walked away and Sam stood there for a moment, watching him go. Turning, he looked out over the beach, then the water. Something wasn’t right. This place was too still.

 

Too calm.

 

Too normal.

 

If experience had taught him anything, it was that chaos haunted order. That Dean seemed to be ignoring that fact bothered him greatly, but he didn’t say so. 

 

“You comin’ or what?” Dean called.

 

Sam turned back to his brother, running to catch up.

 

 

***

 

“How are we for ammo?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Rock salt?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Knives been sharpened?”

 

“Uh, huh.”

 

“Dean.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You ignoring me?”

 

“Trying to, but you keep, you know, _talking_.”

 

“Dean.”

 

“What?”

 

“This is important.”

 

“Can it be important later? I’m eating here,” Dean said between mouthfuls of mac and cheese. 

 

Sam put his fork down slowly, reluctantly determined to break his earlier promise about keeping silent on Dean’s strange behavior. He cleared his throat. “Look, I hate to bring this up—“

 

“Not too late to stop yourself,” Dean observed, licking his fork obscenely. “Is this the best freakin’ mac and cheese ever or what?”

 

”Yeah, you’re a real culinary genius,” Sam agreed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He shifted uncomfortably. “I have a few concerns I wanted to –“

 

“You know what your problem is, Sam? You don’t know how to relax.”

 

Sam balked; he couldn’t decide whether to make his point or defend his honor.

 

“Look,” Dean continued, leaning across the table and fixing Sam with his ‘no-kidding’ face, “You’ve bitched for years about not having any down time, not having any normal. So now you’re here, about as far away from it all as you can get.” Dean stood to clear the dishes, adding, “What are you gonna do with it?”

 

Sam looked up at his brother, jaw working, trying to think of something to respond with. What Dean said wasn’t untrue, but it wasn’t complete, either. 

 

“Hunters don’t take holidays,” he said finally.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because evil doesn’t! Come on, dude, this is bush league!” Sam said, standing and following Dean to the counter where his brother had dropped the dirty dishes into the sink. “Okay, so we’re taking a break. Fine. Whatever. But that doesn’t mean we abandon our precautions, our preparations. Where’s the salt on the doors and windows? Where’s the duffle? Where’re all the weapons? Usually you’d be knee-deep in hardware by now.” Sam waved a hand helplessly at the room. “This doesn’t make sense. _You_ don’t make sense.”

 

Dean shrugged, nodded, then turned to open the refrigerator. 

 

“Dude, the door…” Sam said, sighing and rolling his eyes when he’d determined that Dean was taking too long to make his selection. Dean opened the door wider until it squeaked on its hinges. 

 

Finally, Sam came around and stood behind it, “Would you pick something already? Geez…”

 

Dean stepped away with a carton of milk in his hand, popped it open and started chugging it as his brother slammed the door closed. 

 

“That’s gross, dude. You know, I might want some of that later.”

 

Dean smirked. “Yeah? Why don’t you have some if it now?” With that, he poured the remaining contents down the front of Sam’s shirt.

 

Sam’s eyes went wide with surprise and he jumped back a little as the cold liquid seeped through his clothing, soaking his skin.

 

“Dude! What the hell?” Sam grumbled as he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it at his brother angrily. “Real mature, Dean.” 

 

“You shoulda seen the look on your face, man!’ Dean said, laughing and wiping tears from his eyes. “Priceless!”

 

Sam’s expression softened then as he watched his brother. It had been a long damn time since Dean had laughed like that. _Too long_. Sam nodded and grinned; the conversation from before somehow didn’t seem so important anymore.

 

“Yeah, okay, but who’s gonna clean this mess up?” Sam finally asked, glancing at the dirty dishes in the sink and the puddle of milk on the floor.

 

Dean handed back Sam’s shirt, saying, “I cooked. You clean.”

 

“You _microwaved_ ,” Sam corrected.

 

“Did you eat?”

 

“Well, yeah, but –“

 

“Then it counts.”

 

“Aren’t you gonna at least help?” Sam called to Dean’s retreating back.

 

“Nah. I’m on vacation.”

 

***

 

 

“Peyton Manning,” Sam muttered, head resting on the back of the couch, feet propped up on the foot locker serving as a coffee table. There was no TV here, no telephone, no computer; they’d had to come up with their own entertainment. Shadows played across the wall in the half light from the setting sun. Sam sank down deeper into the cushions and closed his eyes. This is nice. Real nice.

 

“Dan Marino,” Dean answered from the other end of the sofa as he took another sip of beer. The floor was littered with the remains of the six-pack they’d already finished and they both had the buzz to prove it.

 

Sam nodded thoughtfully, burping in agreement. Dean laughed softly. 

 

“Terry Bradshaw was good, too,” Dean added.

 

“Marcus Allen.”

 

“Troy Allen.”

 

“Troy Aikman.”

 

Dean snorted and Sam glanced over to see a disapproving scowl from his brother.

 

“What’s wrong with Troy Aikman? He’s like an NFL legend.”

 

“Dallas,” Dean muttered, shaking his head, cracking open another beer and handing it to Sam. “What do you know, anyway? You watch figure skating.”

 

The remark passed without comment, mostly because Sam was too busy trying to decide if Dean had _meant_ to brush the back of his hand with his thumb before he let go of the bottle.

 

***

 

Over time – how much, he wasn’t sure -- wondering about Dean’s motivations somehow evolved into an examination of his own. Every night, after the space between them had been filled to capacity with liquor and laughter so there was no room left for the awkward, unexpected feelings he carried, Sam would pad off to the bedroom while Dean stretched out on the coach, heedless of any beer bottles in his way. Sam would lay in the darkness for what seemed like years, thinking, listening. At first, it bothered him that the air was so damn quiet; nothing stirred, not even breath, it seemed. It reminded him of the hunt, of the split-second between crouching and killing when hunter and prey are each on an unstoppable trajectory, one toward the other. Adrenaline pumps, muscles work, teeth grind, breath catches and tiny hairs prick up on ultra-sensitive skin, waiting for the moment of contact.

 

Yeah, the hunt was like that, too.

 

***

 

Every night was the same; some drinking, laughing, joking and -Sam could swear – some touching. Then, Dean would nod off with a comfortable buzz and a smile as Sam sat in the dark, waiting. Call it habit or paranoia, but despite Dean’s reassurances – or maybe because of them – Sam was ever-vigilant against attack, against ambush, just as his father had taught him. This went on for a while with no word between them about it. Sam didn’t even know if Dean realized that he spent half the night patrolling the house, a silent sentinel against the attack that never came. 

 

One evening, after a particularly hard session of drinking and denial, Sam got up to leave when Dean reached up from his spot on the floor and grabbed his wrist. 

 

Sam met his brother’s eyes, trying to look neither startled nor expectant.

 

“Sam,” Dean said slowly, as if he were trying the word out for the very first time.

 

“Yeah?” He answered cautiously, aware that Dean was still holding his wrist. Something told him that it would take but some pressure and a properly timed twist to snap the bones, if Dean were so inclined. There were also other, more pleasant but no less frightening possibilities, and, at the moment, Sam wasn’t real sure what he was hoping for.

 

“Still hunting those demons, little bro?” 

 

“Huh?”

 

Dean sighed, loosening his grip a bit but not letting go. “I know.”

 

If he saw Sam’s eyes widen with surprise, he didn’t say so. If Sam looked confused, he really was. He’d begun, you see, to forget what he was searching for when he looked out the window at the glassy, still water that seemed to reach to the edge of the world. Or, when he woke up at night and walked quietly though the house, checking that all the doors and windows were locked, casting glances at Dean’s sleeping form on the couch as he passed back and forth on his rounds. From the moment he woke at night to the moment he tried to sleep again, his fear didn’t fade, just his memory of what made him hang onto it. It was slipping again now.

 

_Knows what?_ Sam wondered. _That I don’t believe him when he says we’re safe here? That I think he’s crazy for being so…so…happy? No, that’s not the word, exactly…he’s too confident, too casual._ Until now, Sam had attributed Dean’s unconcerned attitude to some hitherto unseen facet of bravado meant to allay Sam’s fears. Only now did he see Dean actually believed what he was saying. There was something out there, Sam just knew it. Hadn’t there always been? Hadn’t there?

 

For a fleeting moment, Dean’s calm, assured manner reminded Sam of …he frowned, trying to remember. Maybe all this forgetting was the fault of the alcohol, but God knew it had never seemed so effective anywhere else. That much he’d noticed. Right now, though, he was also distracted by Dean staring at him, watching his face intently, a steady hand slipping down from Sam’s wrist to brush his fingers before it dropped back down to Dean’s side.

 

_He knows about the other thing_ , Sam thought and fought with every ounce of willpower not to catch Dean’s hand as it fell. 

 

Dean settled down onto his spot on the floor again, allowing his head to fall back on the sofa cushion as his eyes slipped closed, leaving Sam to stand there, wondering what to do next. He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, unclear as to what had just happened. Was Dean inviting him to talk about how he felt? Was he saying he knew to warn Sam away from speaking on the matter further? Was he waiting for Sam to do something?

 

As if on cue, Dean whispered, “Nothing happens here unless you want it to, Sammy. Only demons here are the ones you bring with you.”

 

Sam found it easier to consider Dean’s words when his brother wasn’t looking at him. Sam looked down at him, so relaxed, so comfortable; Sam wanted that, too. Knew he’d had it once, a long time ago, in a place called…called… _Stanford_ , was it? He stood there for a long time, until Dean’s breathing changed and Sam knew his brother had slipped into sleep. Then, Sam sat down on the other end of the couch, closed his eyes and followed. 

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

  
Author's notes: Sam reaches an unexpected turning point in his relationship with Dean. (Yeah, there's finally some sex.)  


* * *

Title: (Chapter 3)

Author: jdax

Disclaimer: All this stuff belongs to other people. I own nothing and I’m still flat broke. (i.e. I don’t make money from this.)

 

 

***

 

 

Nothing changed here. Every morning, Sam awoke to light streaming through the window, curtains all aflutter with the excitement of a new day. If Dean woke first, Sam would find him scrounging around in the kitchen, looking for something to microwave before he stripped down to his shorts, grabbed a towel, and headed off for the beach. 

 

He’d look back over his shoulder as Sam came around the corner, rubbing his eyes against the onslaught of light, of normalcy, that greeted him anew every morning.

 

“Wanna come?” Dean would sometimes ask, holding the door open in invitation.

 

“No thanks,” Sam would say, turning his face to hide the blush Dean’s words had caused. _Bastard knows it, too_ , he decided with a grin and a shake of his head. He wasn’t ready for full disclosure, but Dean seemed to be taking well whatever he thought he already knew about Sam.

 

If Sam woke first, he’d have a full meal prepared by the time Dean’s head popped up over the back of the couch. 

 

“What’cha makin’, Martha?” Dean would say, sidling up to Sam and snatching a piece of bacon as they both ignored that they’d bumped into each other while Sam was turning to get a plate off the table. 

 

That’s how it finally happened, the first time.

 

Tension practically crackled between them as the Winchester brothers endured yet another morning meal laden with innuendo. God only knew how many times they’d already done this, and then walked away -- Dean to the beach, Sam to the bedroom -- only to repeat the process again the next morning. By the evening, they could count on a six-pack to take the edge off, but five o’clock was light years away when the façade finally fell.

 

Sam wasn’t angry, just frustrated, confused and, yeah, horny, when he declined Dean’s offer yet again to join him at the beach. All he’d meant to say was, “No thanks,” just like he always did, but that familiar pressure between his legs was demanding attention and Dean wasn’t, you know, _leaving_ so he could take care of it; instead, the eldest Winchester continued leaning on the counter, casually eyeing Sam as he lobbed one double entendre after another.

 

Sam distracted himself from Dean’s insistent playfulness by clearing the table, hurriedly dumping the dishes in the sink as if to say, _Move along, nothing more to see here._ He’d almost made it, too. There were just a few more items – a salt and pepper shaker, a couple of spoons and Sam’s plate – and he would have been free to leave the scene himself. But something happened then: Sam bumped into Dean, but instead of letting the touch pass, Dean took hold of Sam’s elbow and stopped him, as much with his smile as his hand. The hold was light, friendly, and Sam knew he could gain a release if he wanted to, but something in Dean’s eyes told him it was time to stop. 

 

Sam glanced at Dean’s hand, silently challenging him to explain it without breaking their unspoken rule about disclosure. An interminable moment passed when Sam thought they might be locked like this forever; two brothers for whom love was both a foundation and a fault line.

 

“I could use some help here,” Sam finally whispered, his gaze steadier than he felt as he watched Dean’s face for a sign of understanding.

 

Dean licked his lips and paused as if measuring his response. Then, “This is your show, Sam. Has been all along. Just tell me what you want.”

 

Sam felt his breath catch as he considered. There was still time to pull back, to step away from this and bury it again. He could turn to the sink like none of this had ever happened, but if he did it, he needed to do it _right now…_

 

Dean drew himself up, leading Sam away from the counter, hand still on his brother’s elbow, as they came to stand face-to-face. Sam felt his pulse quicken as Dean’s hand slipped from his arm to the waistband of his jeans, then stopped. Dean seemed to be studying Sam’s face, seeking permission to continue. After a moment, when the younger man offered no resistance, Dean’s fingers curled through a belt loop, tugging his brother gently to him.

 

Sam stood there but forgot whatever words came to mind; he couldn’t think with his brother so close, watching his mouth as he struggled to say _something…_

 

Instinct grew tired of waiting for logic and shoved it aside as Sam suddenly leaned forward and captured Dean’s lips in what was supposed to be a kiss; he missed though, grazing the edge of Dean’s mouth and feeling stubble on his cheek, rough skin, the tip of a wet, inquisitive tongue, then, before he pulled away, he noticed the smell of aftershave and bacon. Sam drew back, eyes wide as he wiped his mouth with the back of one trembling hand, not sure if he was more embarrassed by his performance or his attempt.

 

And he was still horny.

 

“Sorry, man,” Sam whispered. “That really…just… _sorry_.” He pulled away, sure he’d blown it. 

 

Sam ran a hand through his hair as he turned to face the table. He was still shaking with need, frustration, and anxiety as Dean slipped in behind him. Really, he wanted nothing more than to turn, press his raging hard-on against his brother’s warm body and open him up in ways neither of them had ever dared to imagine. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “I should finish up here.”

 

“Yeah, you should.”

 

Sam remembered Dean’s smell again, the feel of moist lips on his cheek before he pulled away, the hard, unmistakable bulge between his brother’s legs and his searching fingers as they covertly slipped under the hem of his shirt, pressing into pliant, willing flesh. It was the stuff his fantasies had been built on since…since…since…

 

Sam found his tongue running slowly over his lips as he imagined his brother, naked, writhing under him as he dug possessive fingers into his back with wild, unapologetic need for Sam’s mouth, his lips, his cock. This time, of _all_ times, the forbidden image refused to surrender; the only other choice was for Sam to.

 

Suddenly, Sam reached out over the table and swept the few remaining items onto the floor with a loud, dramatic, clatter; everything broke but the spoons. The salt scattered, a wasted ward.

 

Dean looked at the table, the floor, then Sam, rewarding him with a huge grin.

 

“Damn, Sammy. I didn’t know you had-”

 

Sam wasn’t prepared for how far Dean was willing to let his tongue penetrate his mouth; there was no resistance at all when he slipped it in, rolling it around wetly, slowly, tasting Dean in a leisurely way, then jutting his tongue in and out fast and hard in a blatant mimicry of an act he had only seen once on a scrambled porno station. Dean groaned shamelessly, sucking on Sam’s tongue when he’d allow it, opening his mouth wider when Sam demanded it. Their hands fisted in each other’s t-shirts, pushing and pulling. Sam then slipped one, huge paw around the back of Dean’s neck and the other found itself clutching his brother’s ass.

 

His brother’s ass.

 

His _brother’s_ ass.

 

Logic started to fight with him again using that ever effective mechanism of persuasion: guilt. But desire had her clutches too firmly in him then, for all of Sam’s arguments against softly sucking Dean collapsed like a cheap card table as his brother moaned into his mouth. 

 

It was hot, wet, and had him close to coming before he even unzipped his jeans.

 

Sam pulled away, panting hard. Dean’s eyes were all pupil.

 

“That all you got?” 

 

“Not even close,” Sam growled.

 

*

 

The table didn’t hold. 

 

Sam laid his brother down naked on the tabletop, then stood fully- clothed between his spread legs, feasting on the view. His gaze, his fingertips, wandered possessively down his brother’s taut, tanned torso until both came to rest on the rise of Dean’s engorged cock. Sam touched it, dizzy with arousal, hunger, as he leaned down and swept his tongue over the head, then down the length of it, sure he would never forget the keening sound Dean made at that moment. 

 

Sam teased him, using his tongue and hand by turns until Dean planted his feet on the edge of the table, arched his back and thrust upward, yelling his brother’s name.

 

“Sam, _please!_ ” 

 

Before the last syllable fell, he took Dean fully into his mouth, wrapping his lips around his salty shaft and bearing down hard, sucking and humming wetly against his brother’s aching flesh. Dean’s fingers skittered across his shoulders, through his hair, scrambling for purchase as his praise for Sam’s performance deteriorated into a series of unintelligible curses.

 

Sam was encouraged then to open wider as he splayed his hands next to Dean’s hips and leaned down, sucking deeply until his lips brushed the hair at the base of his pulsing cock. 

 

“Christ!” Dean growled, writhing and clutching Sam’s head as he came hard down the back of his little brother’s throat. Sam leaned down further, rhythmically pressing and releasing with his tongue until he’d milked every last drop of come from the softening shaft.

 

That’s when the table gave way, sending them crashing to the floor.

 

Before the dust had settled, Sam was crawling through the wreckage toward his brother’s prone, satiated body.

 

“Come here,” Dean whispered, his eyes glassy with the oblivion of release.

 

Sam fumbled with his zipper when he reached Dean’s side but didn’t make it before his brother wrapped a hand around the back of his head and pulled him down for the kiss that would be his undoing. 

 

One, two, three thrusts of his cock against Dean’s thigh and his moans of pleasure were lost to his brother’s insatiable mouth as the elder Winchester swallowed the younger Winchester whole.

 

***

 

It was easy after that, like they’d always belonged to each other and Sam had just forgotten. He surprised himself at every turn with the depth of his feeling for Dean, whether he was knocking back a few beers with his brother or moving inside him as he pressed whispered promises to sweat-slick skin. His world narrowed to ever and only needing this, needing Dean, and here, Sam knew he could have him. 

 

He was happy.

 

One evening, when they were sitting on the beach, naked, watching the sun sink into the coming darkness, Sam said so.

 

“I’ve always wanted this,” he ventured, continuing to stare straight ahead. “You know, to be like this, with you.” Seemed silly to be shy about saying such a thing after everything they’d done together. His desire for Dean was complicated by his love for him, which always carried the possibility of rejection.

 

There was silence, then Dean said, “I know.”

 

Sam tried to dismiss his questions and just enjoy the moment. Biting his lip, he tilted his head and continued gazing out over the water as shadows gathered around them.

 

“You knew?” he whispered.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sam looked at him. 

 

“You knew how I felt about you and you didn’t say anything?”

 

The next pause was so long, Sam wasn’t sure he’d been heard. He shifted uncomfortably as he fought to keep his disappointment at bay. _There’s an explanation for that, there has to be. Any minute now, this is gonna make sense._

 

Dean sighed. “You had to figure it out in your own time. That’s how it works.”

 

_Just let it go. Let it go. Let it…_

 

“That’s how it works? _That’s how it works?_ ” Sam replied, a little stunned. “What the hell kind of thing is that to say?”

 

“It’s the truth,” Dean said simply.

 

Sam stared at his brother, suddenly feeling a million miles away as the cold fingers of doubt clutched at his stomach. _Knew this was too good to be true_. 

 

Running a hand over his face, Sam took a breath and started again. 

 

“Look, I know this is all pretty weird. I’ll be the first to admit that and I don’t blame you for needing to deal with this in your own way. Just… please, just don’t put a wall up now. Don’t talk to me like I’m a stranger."

 

Dean nodded and offered a weak smile. “Sorry, dude. Didn’t mean to freak you out,” he said, stroking Sam’s cheek, “But I didn’t make the rules. I just have to follow them.”

 

There were so many things wrong with _that_ phrase coming from _that_ man, Sam didn’t know where to start. 

 

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Sam asked, standing and backing away even as Dean reached for him. “Since when do you give a shit about rules? For Christ sake, this morning you put your dick in my mouth twice before breakfast!”

 

“Because you _wanted_ it.”

 

Sam’s eyes grew wide and he stumbled backwards a little as he repeated, “Because _I_ wanted it?”

 

_Nothing happens here unless you want it to_. 

 

Dean shook his head. “Sam…” 

 

_Nothing happens here unless you want it to_.

 

Sam blinked rapidly, completely incredulous. He could feel his heart pounding. “What the hell, Dean? How could you…why…I mean,… _Jesus!_ ” Sam hung his head, shaking it for a long moment as if to throw off his disbelief. When he finally fixed his gaze on Dean once more, he simply asked, “Do you know how long I’ve struggled with this? How many years I spent hiding it from you so you wouldn’t _hate_ me?”

 

Sam didn’t really want or need an answer to that, but he got one.

 

“Yes.”

 

Sam’s look of bewilderment suddenly changed as his mouth settled into a tight line, his jaw twitching as he fought to silence things he longed to say now but knew he’d regret later. Instead, he just nodded tersely.

 

“Yes,” Sam scoffed. “That’s it? Yes? Man, you’re unbelievable!” 

 

Dean whispered a few soothing words as he reached for him, clearly uncomfortable with this turn of events, futilely trying to recreate the happiness Sam had expressed what now seemed like years ago, but the younger man was too angry to notice any good intentions on his brother’s part.

 

“Christ, Dean,” Sam murmured. He turned then, intent on just walking away. Shouldn’t be too hard. He’d had to do it all his life.

 

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean pleaded. “Come back.”

 

Sam kept walking.

 

“There’s a lot you don’t understand,” Dean called after him.

 

Sam turned on his heel then and spat, “Oh, yeah? And exactly who died and made you God around here, anyway?”

 

The gently whispered words clung mournfully to each other in the suddenly vast distance between the two brothers.

 

“You did.”

 

***


	4. Chapter 4

  
Author's notes: Sam considers the adage that ignorance is bliss.  


* * *

Author: jdax

Disclaimer: Don’t own them. Don’t sue me.

 

***

 

_You did._

 

The words haunted Sam’s every step from the moment they’d been uttered. He’d turned, stricken, and began what seemed like an endless march back to the house. Walking through the front door, he paused in the kitchen, stepping around the remains of the table, mourning them for the broken homage that they were.

 

He took a beer from the refrigerator, popped it open and drank it down as he stood by the sink, looking out the window into the blackness. Even here, in this place where he apparently had total control, complete say over everything that happened, he _still_ couldn’t get it right.

 

And someone who looked like his brother was sitting out there in the darkness, waiting… 

 

Waiting for what? Sam’s next order? His gut clenched at the mere possibility that all this hadn’t been entirely consensual, that the Dean look-alike was here to fulfill his whims like some …some…

 

He took another long, slow pull from the bottle.

 

Problem was, Sam’s feelings were real enough, even if his lover wasn’t.

 

Sam swished the cool liquid around in his mouth and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the inevitable question at the end of this thread. He’d need something a hell of a lot stronger than beer to keep him from thinking about his brother, though. 

 

Because if Sam was here…

 

_Let it go._

 

Where…

 

_Stop._

 

Was Dean?

 

_Shut up!_

 

Sam threw his beer bottle through the kitchen window, barely blinking as glass shattered across every surface he touched.

 

***

 

Sam woke up when he heard the front door close. Rolling over on his side, he struggled against his hangover as he sat up, then lurched toward the bedroom door. He felt raw, vulnerable, like his skin had been rubbed off, exposing him to everything his carefully built walls had protected him from all his life. 

 

He opened the bedroom door to find Dean bedding down on the couch.

 

“Hey,” Sam said, stumbling toward him. 

 

“Hey.” Dean eyed the younger man for a moment. “Love what you’ve done with the place,” he added carefully, nodding toward the kitchen window. “You okay?”

 

“No.”

 

Dean nodded again.

 

“But you could help me.”

 

“You’re drunk, Sam. Why don’t you go to bed and we’ll, I don’t know, figure something out later,” Dean said gently.

 

“Bed. Yeah, alright.” He turned and started walking away, then paused a moment before calling over his shoulder, “You comin’ or what?”

 

*

 

If Dean was bothered by Sam’s drunkenness, he didn’t say so; he just crawled into bed and fitted himself against that long, lean body, pressing soft, sympathetic kisses to the back of the younger man’s neck. 

 

Sam drifted in and out of consciousness; Dean’s body seemed to be the only thing grounding him, keeping him from falling away.

 

Falling apart. 

 

After a time - how long, Sam neither knew nor cared – he rolled onto his back and slipped his hands behind his head.

 

“You didn’t bring me here, did you?”

 

“No,” Dean conceded, resting a hand lightly on Sam’s chest. “You brought me here.”

 

Sam nodded slowly.

 

“There were things I never told him,” Sam whispered into the dark.

 

“Tell me.”

 

“It’s not the same.”

 

Dean propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at Sam’s face with an adoration akin to what the younger Winchester had always wanted to see from his brother. It thrilled and hurt him all at once. 

 

“There’s a lot I don’t remember now…about before,” he continued. “But I remember how I felt.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I think I left him once. Can’t remember why.”

 

“Stanford?”

 

“That sounds familiar,” Sam shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I hurt him and I knew it. Got some fucked up pleasure from it, too.”

 

Dean nodded.

 

“I don’t know when it happened.”

 

“What?”

 

“The feelings. I mean, things have always been sort of tense between us. I can’t remember why, exactly, except that I was sad and a little angry all the time. Seemed like Dean tempered that, you know? Made things bearable.”

 

Dean nodded.

 

“I admired and hated him, but it didn’t take me long to understand that I couldn’t live without him.”

 

“Yeah.” Dean stroked Sam’s cheek with his thumb and the younger man closed his eyes, wet with unshed tears, and turned his face toward the touch.

 

“It’s confusing.”

 

“I know.”

 

Sam looked up at the man next to him in bed, stroking his cheek, listening to his confession.

 

“I miss him.”

 

He nodded.

 

Sam bit his lip, considering carefully the risk of uttering here the forbidden words he’d kept to himself as long as he could remember. His heart was heavy with them as he added quietly, penitently, “I love him.” 

 

Dean leaned down then, pressing his lips to Sam’s ear as he whispered, “He knows.”

 

*

 

“So, how long does this last?” Sam asked after he licked a hot circle around Dean’s left nipple.

 

“Until you’re done.”

 

“Is this like, my life review? ‘Cause that would be a lot more effective if I could, you know, remember my life.”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean said, arching his back to meet Sam’s hungry mouth. “We do.”

 

*

 

Sam decided that it was some sort of reprieve. Not exactly a punishment or a reward, but a lesson he was meant to carry with him so that in future incarnations, he wouldn’t do things like lust after his brother. 

 

That was the conclusion he came to as he was thrusting blindly in and out of Dean’s hot, tight hole.

 

*

 

Later that night, when the house was quiet and their spent bodies were tangled together on the come-stained mattress, Sam woke, rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. A few moments later, he tapped gently on Dean’s shoulder.

 

“Hey,” Sam said.

 

Dean rolled over. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me, dude. Again?”

 

“No, not _that_ ,” Sam said, grinning despite himself. “Just wanted to tell you I’m going down to the beach.”

 

Dean sat up. 

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes,” Sam said, amused by Dean’s disbelief.

 

“It’s just that, you know, you never wanted to before.”

 

Sam shrugged. “Look, as long as I’m spilling my guts to you, I might as well admit that I was afraid. Before I understood that we were, you know, _here_ , I thought there might be something evil lurking in those waters.”

 

“I knew that about you, actually. But why go down there now?”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Well,” Dean said playfully, “You did just exert yourself not too long ago. Don’t wanna get a cramp or something.”

 

“Dude, as you would be quick to point out, I’m already dead. What’s the worst that could happen to me out there?”

 

***


	5. Chapter 5

  
Author's notes: Everything comes full circle.  


* * *

Author: jdax

Disclaimer: None of this is mine and no Winchesters were harmed during the writing of this fic.

 

***

 

In hindsight, Sam understood that Dean, the _real_ Dean, had brought him here to the water’s edge, but wondered if he would have had he known the pain he was about to inflict on his little brother. 

 

He spent the rest of his life sort of hating Dean for what happened next, though he never said so, mostly because he couldn’t quite remember why. Regret and longing simply gnawed at him for years, slowly eating him alive.

 

Business as usual for a Winchester.

 

Sam waded in, enjoying the cooling sensation as the dark liquid pooled around his ankles. 

 

_Nothing to be afraid of_ , he assured himself.

 

He waded in further until he was submerged to his waist. The water began to buoy him, sweeping him slowly from his feet and giving him an eerily familiar feeling of floating. 

 

He let it take him as he dipped his head back, wetting his hair, then rolled onto his belly and swam out into the darkness.

 

* 

 

He was splashing loudly, yelling and stretching with the utter abandon of pure freedom, so he didn’t immediately hear or see the man calling to him from the shore. Sam pushed his hair out of his eyes and squinted in the direction of the house; the bedroom light was on and Dean was running toward the water, waving his hands wildly.

 

_Changed his mind, huh?_ Sam thought, grinning. _Well, we’ll just have to see…_

 

Without warning, a searing pain shot through his back, paralyzing him. When he called for Dean, he was alarmed to discover he couldn’t speak. His mind was suddenly assaulted by images of things, _horrific_ things, one right after the other after the other after the other…

 

He squeezed his eyes shut and would have screamed, if he could have. 

 

 

As a final act of cruelty, the water spun him around slowly. The last thing he saw before he went under was Dean, the one he’d confessed to, made love to, jumping into the surf and swimming toward him, reaching for him and calling his name. Even as his body felt like it was being torn apart, even as he sank into the inky blackness below, Sam still believed Dean would save him.

 

***

 

 

Sam’s eyes snapped open, but he was afraid to move; the memory of pain was still too near.

 

The room was silent and grey and he found himself lying on a twin bed not unlike the kind he and Dean sometimes had as kids when they visited Bobby or Pastor Jim.

 

_Pastor Jim._

 

_Bobby._

 

_Dean._

 

_Jake._

 

_Jake._

 

_Jake._

 

Sam sat straight up and swung his legs over the side of the bed even as he reached for his back. He stood, stumbling toward the mirror across the room. His legs felt weak, unreliable, as he stood there, turning this way and that, trying to get a look at the wound gut instinct told him was there. 

 

Holding the back of his shirt up with one hand, he traced the faded red mark in slow, thoughtful circles with the opposite thumb. 

 

Something wasn’t right.

 

Sam gazed at his image in the mirror; a darker reflection than he expected. He ran a hand nervously through his hair.

 

_What a bum_ , he thought, laughing quietly at himself. 

 

_Need a shower._

 

_And a shave._

 

The hand came down, cupping his chin as his thumb absently grazed his jaw, surveying the stubble.

 

As the thumb neared his lips, it suddenly stopped.

 

Slowly, tracing a line gently down his cheek, he repeated the movement again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

Closing his eyes, he tried hard to understand, to remember why that simple gesture evoked such a strong response, but the answer seemed always out of reach.

 

He licked his dry lips.

 

Later, he attributed it all to Jessica.

 

Even though that never quite rang true, he was probably better off believing it.

 

Sam was standing there in front of the mirror, frowning, grasping at elusive, indistinct images, when the bedroom door suddenly opened.

 

Dean stood there for a moment, frozen, looking both surprised and relieved, which Sam didn’t have the wherewithal to figure out at that moment. The next thing he knew, Dean had taken hold of him in a hugely comforting, nearly-possessive embrace. It reminded him of something…

 

“Sam,” Dean whispered into his neck, clutching him hard.

 

The youngest Winchester opened his mouth to speak, feeling like something was supposed to happen now. 

 

What was it?

 

Was he supposed to do something?

 

To say something?

 

Anything that came to Sam’s mind was quickly swept away by the warm press of Dean’s body against his own. Sam’s arms, which had hung limply at his sides when his brother first embraced him, now found themselves wrapping slowly around the older man, instantly giving him an undeniable sense of familiarity, of comfort.

 

Of danger. 

 

“Careful,” Sam said suddenly, pulling away. 

 

There was a slight frown from Dean just before Sam indicated his back.

 

“It still hurts.”

 

Dean nodded.

 

“Right, sorry” Then, “Hey, you want me to take a look?” Dean was already grasping for the hem of Sam’s shirt, reaching around, pulling it up…

 

“No!” Sam said more forcefully than he meant to. “I mean…”

 

_What the hell_ did _he mean?_

 

Sam licked his lips as he whispered gently, “It’ll be okay.”

 

He could’ve sworn Dean looked disappointed as he let go.

 

An awkward silence opened between them. Sam was counting on Dean to fill it up somehow. Didn’t he always?

 

“Hey, you hungry?” Dean asked, looking around nervously as he slipped his hands into his back pockets. “Bobby brought some chicken, you know …earlier.”

 

Sam nodded. “Sure. I could eat.”

 

They stopped at the bedroom door for a second and Dean said, “Uh, the house is kind of …trashed.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Dean sighed. “Come on. Just be careful. There’s glass on the floor.”

 

Glass?

 

For some reason, Sam was not at all surprised to see broken furniture and abandoned beer bottles scattered about. He sat down slowly at one end of the kitchen table as Dean slid a greasy red and white bucket toward him. 

 

“Eat up, Sammy,” Dean said, plunging his hand in for a piece of meat.

 

Sam reconsidered Dean’s offer of food as he eyed the dubious - looking container.

 

“I think I’ll pass.”

 

“Eat, Sam. You need to keep up your strength.”

 

“Dude, it’s not like I’m sick or something.”

 

Dean stopped chewing for a second. Swallowing hard, he said, “Just do it, Sam.”

 

Sam felt his cheeks flush with irritation.

 

“I don’t want it, okay?”

 

“Stop being a pain in the ass.”

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me.”

 

“Dean…”

 

The older man stood, wiped his hands on his jeans, then rounded the table with the unmistakable intention of obtaining some sort of compliance. 

 

Judging by the look on Dean’s face, Sam might have cause to worry about his means.

 

“Dude…”

 

Dean wrapped a gentle but firm hand around the back of Sam’s neck, then leaned down close to his ear and began whispering insistently. He was saying something about responsibility, about needing Sam to be okay for him to be okay. _Christ, was he bargaining?_ Sam shifted, trying to throw Dean’s hand off his neck as he stared at the one splayed on the table. In reality, all he had to do was stand up to end this.

 

But…

 

Sam could feel Dean’s warm breath ghosting along his ear, sending shivers down his arm.

 

He leaned closer, no longer having any idea what his brother was saying. 

 

Sam could smell Dean’s aftershave and a mix of other things, some more readily identifiable than others. 

 

There was chicken, of course.

 

And the heavy smell of grease.

 

Dean had been in the Impala recently; the smell of leather, motor oil and cheap pine-scented air-freshener gave him away. 

 

Sam frowned.

 

There was something else.

 

A smell he would know anywhere.

 

Had known all his life.

 

Blood.

 

Dean was still holding him, but Sam wasn’t listening anymore.

 

A tempest of questions suddenly rained down on the younger man.

 

_What happened to the house?_

_Why was the furniture broken?_

_Why was there glass everywhere?_

_Why was there blood on Dean’s sleeve?_

 

Sam closed his eyes against the possibilities that were already offering themselves up.

 

He inhaled deeply as he turned to face his brother, before he asked, just to be sure.

 

Because he couldn’t think of any _good_ reason why Dean should smell like sulfur.

 

 

\--- The End.


End file.
